No Worse than This
by Red Guardsman
Summary: The League of Legends had endured for half a century. Then as Valoran was torn apart by infighting and the primal WAAAGH! of the Orks, it was destroyed, leaving a hardened union of empires in the wake of its death. Now, in the midst of a bitter struggle for survival, one man and his actions find a chance to remake history, and leave a better future for the people of Runeterra.
1. Author's Note

Hello. This will be my first and only Author's note for the entire series of No Worse than This.

I'm a first-time publisher, so all feedback is fully appreciated. Constructive Criticism and ideas of your own would be appreciated, but I'll take whatever comes my way.

For this story, I don't intend on giving any hints or asking for any significant ideas, but if you have them, post them anyway! I might figure out that they're decent to use.

To clarify before you start reading this: This is not a direct crossover of the 41st mullenium and the troubles of Runeterra. I'm just taking elements and concepts from the former and shoving them into my AU for the latter. Anyone looking for the Chaos Hordes of Noxus or the Demacian Imperial Guard, or Craftworld Irelia, go elsewhere.

The one hint you have is this: Yes it is a piece of fanfiction involving time-travel. And yes, you may expect relationships between characters.

Also, I'll be throwing in tiny references to whatever I please into here every now and then. Additionally, expect to wait for ages between updates and more publishing of chapters. I like my own chapters to be 10,000 words or more.

No TL;DR. That's all.

I am planning for this to be around sixty chapters, all at least ten thousand words or more. Gods help me.

Enjoy!


	2. Botched Exfiltration

On the world of Runeterra, a continent named Valoran was in a tense peace. Huge empires were carving themselves deeper into place, only to have their resources put towards making their armies merely hold position. Two of those empires were total opposites – one fighting for truth, freedom and justice while its counterpart fought for its own military-minded interests. They hated one another bitterly, yet neither had made any overly aggressive movements towards one another for twenty years.

Instead, all the powers in the land had opted to solve their problems by vesting their chosen warriors, lauded as Champions, into the famed League of Legends; a colossal organization based in the Institute of War in the centre of the land that was emplaced in order to stop and prevent the massive, costly struggles of conventional warfare and the horrendous magical conflicts such as the Rune Wars, which had been ended a mere two decades ago.

The League commandeered four sprawling arenas for the sole purpose of combat. The Champions feared no death, instead trusting in the magery of the League and the Summoners to respawn them anew whenever they were dealt a mortal blow. When the matches were won, disputes were solved and much entertainment was drawn from the hundreds upon thousands of fans of the Legends.

One such champion was Ashe, the Frost Archer hailing from her kingdom in the northern tundra-wastes of Freljord, who was currently sitting at the desk in her lodgings in the massive Instutute of War. As nice as it would have been to have all of her tools and weapons magically serviced by the dozens of assistants that all but orbited the Summoners, they had instead opted to more grovelling and brown-nosing of their superiors.

In fact, her fellow champion Olaf had shared a theory about that - the more assistants a Summoner has, the more important they are. Therefore, to find a Summoner of note all anyone had to do was look for a small city's worth of assistants milling about a certain point. That one had elicited more than a few laughs around the Champions' Dining hall.

A light testing pluck of her bow's enchanted string informed her that the weapon was repaired to the best of her ability. Again cursing the lazy, bureaucratic assistants of the Summoners, Ashe simply got up and left her lodgings.

As she exited the hall, another shadier figure concealed by shadow moved, towards and into Ashe's lodgings. As the sneaking figure moved into light, the dark hues of a Noxian Shadow-weave sneaksuit defined themselves. Barely a whisper sounded as the figure snuck into the Freljordian Queen's lodgings.

* * *

Sneaking only to sabotage was not Katarina's niche. As an Assassin of Noxus, her usual missions were to infiltrate the enemy's ranks and eliminate high-profile targets. To move like a ghost, then strike without mercy and watch them collapse and die with her dagger in their throats.

But this mission come directly from Noxian High Command, and the Grand General Jericho Swain himself had approved of it and relayed it to her. Orders were orders, and she would see them completed. Her loyalty to Noxus demanded no less. So that was how the Sinister Blade found herself infiltrating Ashe's quarters, to implant a magical device which would supposedly relay all sound to another agent who had the magical equipment necessary to capture and record everything. A glorified magical bug.

Through the door Katarina went, with the soles of the sneaksuit making barely a whisper on the cold floor. It was downright irritating- no, outright infuriating that she was lumped with this sort of mission. Across a small clear space and to a desk she crept.

The bug would have to be placed in something valuable, yet inconspicuous... A bag of gold would be too heavily scrutinised. The flawlessly jewelled pendant to its left would be too obvious. But as Katarina peeked further inside the drawer, something else caught her eye. And a rising sense of disbelief accompanied its rise as Katarina pulled it up into the light.

_A diary? Really, Ashe?_ the assassin-turned-infiltrator thought. However, it would be a perfect place for the bug... Carefully opening its cover, the Noxian looked to the front and back, thinking to implant the tiny jewel-like device into the spine somewhere. Down at the bottom-right corner of the back cover was where the bug found itself implanted. Replacing it, the infiltrator left the desk and crept back out the room.

She left the wing without the magical security systems of the Institute noticing a thing.

* * *

Elsewhere, in a deeply hidden cavern in the one of the many rock formations surrounding the Institute of War, a nova of bright azure light suddenly appeared, and as the air cracked from in displacement, it was gone again. The rock where the flash had been was all but gone, with nothing but a perfectly gouged sphere of emptiness in the floor to herald anything having been there at all.

In the center, a figure arose with searing pain from jellied, screaming muscles. As soon as they stood up straight, a stacatto of clicks from bone joints heralded a huge amount of bones relocating themselves into their right places. To this, the figure merely stood there and uttered an "Ow!"

The word was heavily muffled because of the masklike rebreather unit that was strapped over the figure's face. Had the mask not been there, the exclamation would likely have resounded all the way out of the cavern. Darkened lenses with dull, dirtied and faded metal made the mask a near unnoticeable image at a distance in normal light, and the suit itself taking on a featureless grey that ghosted its surroundings would surely have made the figure a spectre in normal conditions, but with the glowing blue crystals that lined the cave's walls, the suited figure was illuminated quite clearly.

A dull grey hood hiding the figure's head concealed his identity if the mask failed to do so, and the black undersuit that connected to the mask made his a fully sealed suit.

Fumbling, gloved digits slowly flexed and reached down to pat over the belt at the figure's waist. His binoculars were still in place in his belt, on the right side in the slot behind his gun's holster. His light-duty infiltrator's blade was likewise still securely in its dull leather sheath on his left. Though hopefully the suited figure would not require them.

The figure reached behind, to touch a bulky cylindrical device at the small of his back which scattered specks of white light about through segments of a clear material in its casing. A hasty fumbling, a depression of a button, and a clicking-back of a lever depowered the device and shut the yellowed grille.

Even through the suit, the figure could feel the near-oppressive magnitude of the energy released by the device slack off and then fade entirely. Then, checking that the rest of his repertoire was fully operational and accounted for, the sealed-suited figure threw his head back and laughed. Though the heavy mask obscured all words that came out of his mouth, the sealed-suited figure made to stroke the device, and mutter a few words before replacing it at his back.

His words? "You crazy sons of bitches, you actually succeeded." And then, "If treasonous bastards give us fantastic, reality-screwing magitechnologies, I say give us more treasonous bastards."

He reviewed his mission; To retrieve two items of exceptional personal importance to him. Their location? The lodgings of two Champions of the fabled League of Legends in the Institute of War.

The seals of the stealthsuit's joints creaked as the figure made his way out of the cavern, and into the purple-tinged expanses of the canyons that surrounded the Institute.

* * *

Captain Teemo, the Swift Scout of Bandle City's Scouts of the Mothership, was uneasy. It wasn't that he was worried about the upcoming match; he and all the Champions trusted the Summoners and the magics of the Fields of Justice innately. No wound, ailment, sickness or ache ever lasted for the Champions who were to serve as avatars for a tremendous exercise of conflict, and the League preferred to keep its assets in good condition.

That uneasiness wasn't the honey mead he drank, either. The Institute was practically floating in a sea of its own riches from its advertising to the masses all across Valoran, and as such even the worst drink the Yordle scout could possibly order here was still miles better than the watered-down rations of Bandle City's Special Forces.

"What's up?" his good friend Tristana exclaimed, sitting down next to him and simultaneously shoving him over onto his side on the padded wooden bench they sat on. As soon as the Scout sat back up properly and shook the bits of cereal out of his face, fur and hat, he resumed munching on his breakfast like nothing had happened.

Not that this was unnoticed by the Megling Gunner. "Hello? Valoran to Captain Teemo, anyone alive in there?"

Teemo turned to her with a deadpan stare. "Yeah. I'm up."

"Even you aren't this stone-faced before a match. What's wrong?" Tristana asked.

"I dunno. You ever-" He broke off, heavily set in thought. "Naw, you haven't. Well, you see..." He paused there, trying to make sense of what he wanted to say.

"Spit it out, Tee. You're never this tongue-tied."

He sighed and started again. "Okay. I'm getting these weird vibes today, and I don't like the feeling of them-"

"Did you decide to eat a cockroach to 'Train your immune system' again?" She quipped before leaning to dodge an amused swing of the hand from Teemo.

"This is serious!" He said, before taking a deep gulp of mead. "I've been getting these weird vibes all morning. I had 'em when Veigar made his attack on the Mothership-"

He paused as he and Tristana shuddered. That day's events had been far too close to disaster for either of their liking. "I had 'em the day when that Lulu business popped up."

As she overheard this from her end of the table, the Fae Sorceress blinked and glanced over to see the Captain looking forlorn and to see Tristiana in business-mode. Nothing unusual. She decided to turn back to her meal.

"Whatcha saying, Teemo?" Tristana asked. Right now, her friend and comrade was making no sense whatsoever, and at the same time all the sense in the world.

"Something's gonna happen today. I can feel it."

* * *

A huge screen announced the casual afternoon match's participants, in letters taller than most people would be when standing.

Team 1 : **Teemo - Soraka - Mordekaiser - Lee Sin - Draven**

Team 2 : **Garen - Sona - Renekton - Rammus - Teemo**

The nonparticipating Champions simply moved off, and those involved walked forward to the Antechamber, where they would prepare for the upcoming match before they would be whisked away. Teemo, on the other hand, moved off to a separate room from the Antechamber, into a massive room with two huge circular raised platforms and even by the standards of the League, a huge amount of magical equipment surrounded them.

Not that it was likely needed, though. To the Swift Scout, this sort of thing was routine. The yordle stepped up onto one platform, and with the magicians giving him the go-ahead, prepared himself for the process to begin. Shortly afterward, the other platform began to glow with an unnatural light. Teemo stood perfectly still as the ritual.

A vortex of glowing white spots flickered into existence around him. Teemo's nose began to twitch.

The vortex began to swirl slowly around him, and gentle tugs on his fur indicated his essence being examined, analysed, and prepared to be copied. A rebellious itch sprung up in force at the end of his nose. Teemo fought the urge to scratch the damnable thing and waited.

Another vortex sprung up on the other platform, though spinning the opposite direction from the one surrounding him. As it glimmered into view, a gentle glow surrounding a white blob formed out of the vortex. The damnable itch needled its way into his nose further. Now he was a little irritated.

Through the other vortex, the glowing mass could be seen to take on Teemo's silhouette. The glow was receding a little, and more bits of the glowing vortex moved to take the places, forms and functions of his weapons. That infernal itch was starting to seriously annoy the Swift Scout now. But he forced himself to stay still.

The glow fully receded into the cloned Teemo as his skin, fur, clothes and the other fine details of the Champion, weapons and equipment included. As soon as the vortex vanished out of existence, Teemo let forth a massive sneeze, and scratched at his nose furiously.

"Itchy snout there, tiny?" the other one asked. The original blinked, and looked up to see a mocking smirk on the clone's face. The magicians in the room actually paused in their work.

"Excuse me?" Teemo asked. The clone just shook his head and sauntered over to the door with a cocky swagger in its step, before a magician walked over and intercepted him.

"Sorry, but the Summoner demanded that you wear the Cottontail skin." To this, the clone froze in its tracks, and burst out laughing.

"Oh come ON! You don't think I'm gonna wear that stupid suit, do ya?" The clone asked with his hands on his hips. The magician made a hand-motion, and the cloned Teemo keeled over, unconscious.

The original simply sighed. There wasn't enough time to clone another, and he had to get going. As he turned to leave, he saw two junior magicians hurry over to apply the illusion that would make it look as though the cloned Teemo had a suit that resembled a fluffy bunny.

The original cringed in dismay for his clone, and walked back through to the Antechamber.

* * *

As the champions readied for their match, another figure in a rather bulky stealthsuit took out a rather special set of binoculars and levelled them over the Institute of War. These binoculars weren't simply to make distant objects appear closer; a depression of a small lever at the right thumb activated a dispersion field within the lenses, and slowly the magical constructs that shielded the Institute came into view.

The infiltrator adjusted the setting, and observed the huge, integrated fields that were in place for detection, shielding and generally the entirety of the security surrounding the Institute and more accurately, the Champions' quarters. A slight adjustment to the same lever made afterimages of glowing arrays appear, superimposing them over, within and around the walls, archways and doors. Clearly all of these systems were inside the walls of the building. As the various clever, and more often nasty traps and security systems made themselves evident, hasty scrawls of a pen wrote down details of the various systems, noting all of the triggers, response processes and magical detection systems in place.

Slowly, a map was building both on the pad and within the infiltrator's head, and few pathways inside were available.

A glance down at the notes through dulled eye-lenses, then a gaze upward at the Institute told the infiltrator he still didn't have enough information.

He decided to enact the contingency plan for intelligence-gathering - he would leave behind Resonance Crystals at certain locations, and hope no-one from within would notice the waves that would be mapping out the insides of that building. He got up, and decided to get going.

Up he climbed, until he got to a reasonably high outcropping that had a vein of brightly-glowing purple crystal snaking through its body. Measuring the distance to the massive building and the angles needed for the waves to reflect and refract correctly, he figured that three inches across and four below from the C-patterned vein that ran through the glowing crystal. The purple glow would hide the crystal well, he thought further.

Redoubling his hold on the jagged rock, the infiltrator unzipped a pocket, but as his gloved hand fumbled inside the tiny pocket, and a small, precious box fell out. He paused until he heard a metallic clang on the rocks below.

Fighting vertigo, the infiltrator looked down, and between his legs on the rocks below was that metal box. A frustrated groan escaped from the mask as he saw it sit itself precariously close to the edge, and so close to the abyss. Cautiously, he let himself down and eventually reached the ledge it was sitting on.

Leaving a hand on the wall after making his way down the cliff, the infiltrator carefully reached out to the box, and opened the lid slowly.

A hasty inspection of the precious surveillance apparatus within the box almost made him laugh in relief. The device consisted of six crystals and a box which would send out detecting waves, which would resonate off the field the crystals generated to return to the box. Thankfully, none of the crystals were damaged, and the box seemed only lightly scuffed.

He closed the lid again and reached down, loosening one of the many straps on his suit's utility harness just enough for the box to fit into. Tightening it again once it was secure in his harness, he began the long climb up once more.

* * *

Lee Sin walked out through the doors and out of the teleportation chamber, his body renewed and refreshened by the magics of the Summoners. Garen and Draven were chatting amicably, if not good-naturedly – as much as it could get between a Demacian and a Noxian, anyway - about the amusing stalemate that their Summoners played one another against. The Blind Monk wandered towards the champions' Dining hall, as did the vast majority of the champions seeking to catch a meal and the latest gossip between the champions.

Then, a pressure descended on them. Not like simple air; this was energy, like sound and light. He sensed his fellow champions carry on without him, except for Teemo who the Blind Monk sensed had also stopped.

"Do you sense that also?" the monk asked. By the air currents moving, he guessed that Teemo had nodded.

"It's kinda like a heatwave, only it's bouncing everywhere. All over the walls and everywhere." the Swift Scout said, gripping his trusty blowgun.

"Should we investigate? I sense that the others do not notice."

"The Summoners probably aren't gonna help either." Teemo started walking. "Let's go up to the roof, we might be able to see where it is." The yordle captain started off, before he turned back to see Lee Sin with a deadpan smile. Teemo nervously rubbed the back of his head under his helmet.

"Do not worry, I see what you mean." the monk quipped. At a run, the Ionian set off, overtaking the yordle quickly.

They soon reached the roof, where the red-armoured Judicator Kayle was standing, rapt at attention with a frustrated look on her face. When the monk and the scout arrived, she turned with a look of some surprise.

"You too sense it?" she asked.

"It is amazing how keen the other senses become when one is deprived of sight." Lee Sin stated. Teemo just shrugged.

The Judicator nodded in thought. "Can you sense where they originate from? I may be able to find what's causing them."

The blind monk nodded. "It will be tricky. I shall need to center myself. It may take some time."

Teemo nodded, taking up his blowgun and loading a poison-tipped needle. "I'll establish a perimeter." The monk nodded, and sat down in a meditative pose, head hung loosely as if he were sleeping. Teemo walked about the roof, placing down mines and setting up tripwires for them and other, nastier traps.

Kayle simply beat her wings and carried herself up to a small overhang, irritatedly looking this way and that.

Sometime later, Lee Sin stood up. Teemo ran back over and Kayle glided down to his position.

"I have determined that there are six different sources for it, and one place where it does not register." The monk stated, a frown gathering on his face.

"Can you point where it is?" Teemo asked. Lee Sin smiled a little and pointed out to one of the many pillars and outcroppings of magically-changed rock that surrounded the Institute. Teemo whipped out a notepad and hastily scrawled down the location. Then the monk pointed again, and the process continued.

"And over there is where the-" Lee Sin paused. "Strange. Nothing is there anymore." And true to his word, that pressure upon their senses had vanished.

"Damnation. We are too late. I shall investigate regardless." With that, the angelic Judicator took the offered notepad from Teemo and flew off to investigate the points he had marked.

Lee Sin simply nodded to himself and walked over again, leaping and flipping over the masses of traps and tripwires Teemo had assembled. The scout looked on in dismay and wandered over, grumbling as he began to pack them away.

* * *

Though by all rights it should have been expected, the infiltrator was still in awe from the moment the three stepped up to the roof. His eyes had been glued to his binoculars as Teemo put up his many, many traps. Lee Sin was another wonder all in himself, and the angelic strength Kayle bore in her every move left nothing to be wanting for any observer.

It was when he realised that Lee Sin could likely sense his device and its functions that he began to panic, and hurried to pack away is equipment. The binoculars were hastily packed away, and the Wave Mapping Device in his hands was shut down and packed away.

He looked over to the airborne Judicator, who was circling around the spot where he had placed the sixth Resonance Crystal. It was all he could do to hope she wouldn't find it, and retreat as best as he could. The stealthsuit made quiet rustles as he strapped the box securely back into place under his arm and close to his ribs.

A glance to the empty void over the edge informed him that Kayle was heading this way, seemingly able to find nothing of the Resonators. He shifted, and tucked himself close to the rock and deep into a corner, where the purplish lights of the outside illuminated poorly. In scantly a minute, he was able to hear powerful wingbeats just outside the crevice that he hid behind.

Under the stealthsuit, the infiltrator barely breathed. After a tense few minutes, the wingbeats slowly started to fade. The infiltrator risked a glance and saw that the Judicator was flying off, back towards the rooftops of the institute. As the three disappeared back inside the building, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Carefully, the infiltrator got back to his feet and crawled out of the crevice.

He noticed night was falling. From a tactical view, he would have to undergo the operation tonight; the three who had sensed him would make reports to the authorities in the League, and failing that they would surely spread rumors to their fellow Saints. By tomorrow the whole Institute would be locked down tighter than a Noxian Dungeon.

He took out the Wave Mapper and looked again at the detailed image it displayed. There were few holes in the Institute's defence, though the ones that were present were glaringly obvious to the trained eye. He was no Shadow Hand, but he was skilled enough as an infiltrator to deduce that from the results of both the Wave Mapper and his binoculars' magic-sensitive setting, there were several ways he could get inside, and a Magic Disruption charge would level any standing enchantments present.

His attention wandered to one such point - a loose board in the less dutifully tended section of the massive building's roof. In that area, there was only one hastily set up illusion to make the patch look identical to the surrounding marble, and a cheap sentry spell set up to look out over the plain in front of the league. Had he been a magic-user, the infiltrator was sure he could have dismantled that in seconds.

His musing led him to the decision of practicality - a high-power, extremely low-yield energy spike would overload both enchantments, hopefully before the alarm could sound.

Tactically, he was prepared and he had a strategy. But doubt still sawed away at the infiltrator's mind, like a million bugs in a feeding frenzy. He was going to be close to with the Saints of the League themselves! His upbringing screamed at him to be in awe. His duty forced his mind back to clarity.

He packed the Wave Mapper back in its box and gazed out to the Institute once more. The building was utterly awe-inspiring; huge, solid walls of marble, floating blue crystals aglow with magelight, and towering pillars of more marble gleamed in the evening sun. With the purple glow of the crystals in the surrounding rock formations, it made for a stunning sight.

The infiltrator simply stared, and tried to burn the sight into his head. This view was a far better one than the blasted, charred ruin the building would become.

* * *

By the evening, the word had spread to all of the Champions in the League, as well as the vast majority of the Summoners. Some believed there was definitely going to be an infiltrator attempt to get inside. For this, the professional and skilled assassins among the Champions mocked him for such a shoddy attempt. It was a mark of skill to not be detected. But some simply thought something of importance was going to occur, and kept their wits about them regardless.

As such, everyone at the Champions' dining table had a weapon close at hand. Mordekaiser carried his huge mace on his shoulder freely – although it wasn't like he did that always - and even Poppy, the Iron Ambassador of Demacia, had a hand on the handle of her massive hammer, Whomper.

Eyes were alert and wary, and the air was very tense. One figure who was warier than most was Garen Crownguard, the Might of Demacia and a vaunted Commander amongst its army. Dealing with infiltrators and assassins was one of his strong points; many, many battles on both the Fields of Justice and on more conventional battles against the likes of Katarina gave him an edge against any of the underhand tactics that were considered fair game amongst the killers in the dark. But for all his ability, he had not expected to be facing off against infiltrators in the very Institute of War itself.

From his viewpoint, there was nothing to gain for whoever this was. The Institute and the League were the only things keeping the continent of Valoran from tearing itself apart in bloody warfare. Then again, the prestige and power that the League held may have been a target on its own, and the simple fact that anyone managed to get inside would have been a reward in itself.

He stood up, his musing over and his decision made. His sister Lux looked up, as did his friend Jarvan IV, Crown Prince and Exemplar of Demacia.

"I'll be back in a second." he said, placating them. It seemed a little counterproductive, because the effect was exactly antagonizing when he walked over to the Noxians' table in the hall.

More than a few stares tracked him, but the warrior with the Greatsword sheathed on his back ignored them and walked over to his Noxian counterpart. "Darius. I need to speak with you."

The Noxian General eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then slowly stood up. The two headed outside the hall, and out of sight of the many rather startled onlookers.

One such onlooker was Garen's sister, Luxanne Crownguard, the Lady of Luminosity. She got up and hurried over to her good friend Ahri. "Hey. Can you hear what they're on about?"

The Nine-Tailed Fox nodded as she tilted her head to listen. "They're discussing that guy who's trying to sneak in here. Seems pretty tense to me."

Lux stared. "And nothing else?"

Ahri shook her head. "Nothing else. It's quite civil, otherwise." She said, eating some of the pork.

"Garen and Darius? Civil?" Lux asked incredulously, shaking her head. Ahri laughed a little.

"I know. Any other time you'd think I'm crazy."

"Oh well. See ya." Lux said, and walked back over to her seat and meal.

Meanwhile, the two heavyweights in the hall were discussing the elephant in the room; the infiltrator. Currently, they were in a staredown.

"Well, is it?" Garen had asked. Darius looked more than a little offended at the insinuation, but answered.

"It's not of any sanctioned mission I know of. And we know better than to try something like this." the Hand of Noxus answered, bearing an irritated scowl.

"I speak to you not as a Champion, but as a Commander to a General. Was. It. One. Of your agents?" Garen said, with no small amount of steel.

"As I said, it is nothing I know of." Darius spoke back, hand twitching to the handle of his smaller axe near his hip.

"Very well. Thank you for your time." Garen said, then walked back out through the great doors and back into the Dining Hall. Silently grumling about time wasted, the Noxian did the same.

* * *

The infiltrator looked upon the Institute of War one more time, well aware of the tension and alertness within. It would simply make his job that much harder, and more dangerous if he was caught. The binoculars went into their case for the final time, and he began to move down the rock formation's wall and out into the rocky plain that surrounded the Institute.

Through crevices in the rock, into caverns and out into crevasses he walked, along the path that he had determined would least attract many magical sensors from the building. After what felt like hours, the infiltrator found himself scaling the wall of the Institute, and walking in a crouch along the ledge to the rooftop.

Scrambling up the tiles, he grasped at the ledge and pulled himself up.

Then, after quietly sneaking over to the more stable centre of the rooftop, he lay there for a second. Vertigo faded, and the infiltrator then slowly climbed to his feet and set off again. The patched section came into sight as he crept around a small raised section in the roof. Reaching down into his harness yielded the a small, curved cylinder to the infiltrator's hand.

He depressed a small button on it, and as the center of the cylinder started to lightly glow blue as a small meter next to the button started to fill up. It was a Magic Drainer; not along his original plan of using an Anti-Magic charge, but less detectable than its more explosive counterpart.

Plus, the fact that he could reuse this to charge his weapon later on was helpful.

The meter filled up slowly, until it stopped with the needle quivering near three-tenths full. He quickly shut it off. The illusion and the alarm both drained of power, and they faltered and failed, shutting down. The board swam into view through a slight haze, a mark of the illusion running out of energy to run. Quickly, the sneaksuit and harness-clad infiltrator pried the board apart from the thin wall and slipped inside.

A short while of crawling through the space between the walls later, his boot touched marble. This was the main section of the building, as opposed to the hurried add-on that stood above and around him. He stood, but instead of reaching out and feeling around like a blind beggar, he reached for his Wave Mapper again.

Though the light from its display was glaring to him, he forced his eyes open into a squint and looked down. It showed he was some distance away from his second marked point; a maintenance shaft that led to a series of maintenance chambers amongst the Revered Inventor of Piltover Heimerdinger's laboratory, which consisted a large part of the add-on that he had snuck through.

The infiltrator simply hoped that his sneaksuit wouldn't be too detectable by whatever spells permeated the air.

His boots made nearly no sound as he walked, keeping an even balance and trying to keep any means of detection from showing itself. In his harness's belt, his blade lightly swung, coming dangerously close to colliding and making a 'ting' with the gun he kept holstered and tightly strapped to his leg.

* * *

At that time, the Revered Inventor was finishing up for the day. He had nearly been driven spare by the reports of the 'strange force' that had reportedly blasted the Institute from all sides. Certainly, he had deduced that it was for some sort of detection device, the golem craftsmen of Zuan utilised the same thing in their creations from time to time, but the sheer scale of this blew all of those out of the water.

Waves which permeated every inch of the massive Institute building, and still had sufficient energy to travel back to that singularity! Naturally, it had driven the Inventor to stay practically glued to his worktable, notes being scrapped nearly as quickly as he could scrawl them down. Eventually however, he just gave up. So he was heading downstairs for a cup of hot cocoa.

* * *

It was sudden, and quite a surprise when the infiltrator came face-to-face, or more accurately face to several inches above the head, with the Revered Inventor himself. He ducked to the side and pressed himself against the wall, as mumblings over the rim of a cup continued. The infiltrator froze, hoping against hope that the genius would keep walking and not notice him.

Mercifully, it was only with a small sneeze that the Inventor continued on his way. As soon as his footsteps disappeared from earshot, the infiltrator let out an audible sigh from behind his suit's mask.

And so he crept along, the opposite way to the interior of the Institute. Soon, his boots stopped falling on wooden boards, changing to marble, and they started being muffled by expensive carpet. He didn't fear leaving a trail - the suit was extremely repellent to most things. Then again… As his thoughts continued, he found himself unsure.

The Union standard-issue stealthsuit was practically untouched by mud, grime and water, but the dust and grit from the plain may have stuck to his suit's boots. He checked back and saw to his relief that he left no markings he could detect on the carpet.

The lights in the halls were dimmed as to suit the evening light. By the display on the Wave Mapper which he still held in his hand to help him find his way, it had just turned 1900. By the noises he heard faintly from other corridors down the hall, which by his Wave Mapper he knew was the direction of what was presumably the Saints' Dining Hall, it became evident that they were still enjoying their suppers.

This bode well, he would have less trouble to deal with. 'Trouble' meaning 'less chance to be sighted'.

* * *

He continued on into what he had deduced were the Saints' lodgings. His two objectives were in there, and it was a simple matter of watching the various traps and magical sentry systems the various Saints had emplaced in their lodgings' entrances. He advanced forward, gazing wide-eyed at the resplendent halls of the Institute.

At that moment, the infiltrator felt as though he were in a history book. He advanced forward, glancing side to side at the walls - if the increasing amount of trophies both beast's head and weapon were any indication, he knew he was in the Frejlordians' sector of the area.

The problem was that he now had no idea where to go. If he were to look into every room, it would take far too long and he'd likely be caught. Not good. He slunk off into a dark corner and knelt, reaching back and placing his Wave Mapper back in its harness.

Out of his harness he brought a different device - significantly smaller, but just as heavy. A few twists of a dial on its face, and a push of a button, and he activated the Life Detector.

It was quite simply, exactly what its title was; it detected life-signs. But it could also compare them and analyze them and do all sorts of other technosorceries with simple readings from an thin metal rod which he exposed by silently flicking off a cover. The display started up as he aimed it at the door and the room beyond, and he read the bold, blocky text that disappeared a few seconds after he read each line.

UNION-PATTERN FIELD-ISSUE LIFESIGN DETECTOR

USER LOGGED

SENSORS OPTIMAL

PROTOCOLS OPTIMAL

FOREIGN LIFESIGNS DETECTED. LOCATE Y/N

The infiltrator pressed the button in the middle. The text disappeared for a few seconds as the machine did its work.

LOCATING...

NW 274 - LIFESIGN DETECTED.

Quickly, he pressed the button on the left. The machine stopped its next programmed process of scanning for other lifesigns around him, and the text held its position on the display. Then it vanished in preparation for more.

SPECIES - HUMAN

STATUS - ALIVE - OPTIMAL

ANALYSE Y/N

The infiltrator pressed the button in the middle.

ANALYSIS: 98% VALORAN - FREJLORD

That wasn't helpful at all, he thought. But the machine continued its analysis, with the needle moving just as quickly, but with a significant delay in between the words' appearance. Evidently, it was hard for the device's functionings to work through a marble wall.

Then again, he was amazed at the edge the magitech provided him - the Institute's magical alarms weren't picking up a thing.

TRAINED - Y

MAGIC-USER - Y

ESTIMATED THREAT LEVEL - A2

He didn't even blink. Alpha-2 was a level reserved near-exclusively for the Saints. The text faded and new messages popped up.

LEVEL - 7

ADVISORY - DO NOT PROVOKE

Like it'd be hard to provoke anyone, he thought wryly. With his actions, he had antagonised the League to the point where he could cut the tension with a butter knife.

He thought for a second, before pressing the button on the left. The line of text faded, and a second line appeared. Through the stealthsuit he heard a noise, and he quietly pressed himself harder into the shadow as footsteps echoed out across the hall.

They faded, and after reading the correct words from the device he shut it off, put the cap back on and replaced it, continuing on his way.

Slowly, anxiety began to worm its way into his thoughts. He was risking a lot by simply staying where he was, letting someone get sight of him was a sure death sentence. The problem he had, however, remained. He still didn't know which of the dorms were those of his targets. It was too risky to simply look, and he had no idea which they were.

Though just taking a look around was an option that was sounding more and more attractive. The paintings, carvings and trophies seemed more exquisite around a certain door.

A glance downwards to the Life Detector showed that there was no-one in there, but it had been vacated very recently. Also, apparently there was a magically-empowered bow inside. The link made itself apparent, and he cursed himself for not realising it sooner. That was the dorm of Saint Ashe, the Frost Archer.

After checking the area again to make absolutely sure there were no lifesigns inside that room or nearby save the one in the other room, he slowly opened the door and crept inside.

* * *

The room was quite spartan, even by the standards he was trained to hold; the bow that he initially thought purely ornamental was in fact Ashe's deadly weapon. A quote from her description in the history annals sprung to his mind, originally said by her husband Saint Tryndamere no less: "Best to keep moving. Ashe can hit five birds with one arrow." He chuckled silently and moved on forward. If his guess was correct, his objective would be in the desk somewhere.

He opened a drawer. Then he was a little stunned as he immediately hit the jackpot. Within was a small, heavily worn, plain-looking book. More specifically, it was his objective. Slowly, he unzipped his stealthsuit and placed the book in the hidden pocket over his breast; wouldn't do to have the light-toned book give away his position if he had placed it in his harness's pouch.

He took a last glance over the room and crept back out into the hall. Then he paused to think for a second. Would they have? Surely they would. And with that thought, he snuck forward and crept through the door opposite the one he left behind.

Surely enough, he walked through to the dorm of Saint Tryndamere.

It was a proper warrior's room, he concluded after a look around. Fur couches, stuffed beast head and battle-damaged weapons as trophies on the walls and what was evidently a whetstone on the massive table near the bed. By his guess, his objective would be in the place of least conspicuousness and highest value. A glance up to the top shelf proved his assumption right.

His other objective was up there, next to a half-empty bottle labelled 'Gragas' Special Brew - Finest Mead in Valoran!' Gragas was another Saint, as well as a brewmaster, he remembered.

He had to reach - the room, or its furnishings, anyway, were obviously designed around Tryndamere's height. Going on the tips of his toes allowed the infiltrator to grasp at the edges of the small black book which fell off the shelf into his waiting hands. That one, too, went inside his suit and into the pocket with Ashe's diary.

_Both objectives complete_. He almost jumped in joy, but remembered that he was, whichever way one may look at the situation, enemy territory. He slowly crept back to the door and back outside to the hallway. But it was then, when he was out in the open - foolishly - that a door opened, and Sejuani, the Winter's Wrath and liegelady of all of Frejlord's outcasts, walked out into the hall and sighted the infiltrator.

* * *

Sejuani herself was not having the best of nights. First all the bothersome worry about that infiltrator had against all reason given her the most ungodly headache in all history, then she had found out that she couldn't outperform her bitter rival Ashe because all of the dummies in the training areas were being repaired.

And there hadn't been any volunteers for a spar, either. So it was all she could do to keep her anger bottled up, and take her share of the dinner to her room.

Not that the latter was a bad thing; frankly, she'd rather be amongst her people and leading them well than to face the bigots and fools that made up the people she dealt with every day.

But now she was presented with what she assumed was the cause of her roaring headache which struck earlier on. So she was more than happy to attack.

She was not overly specialized towards magery, but she knew more than enough to last without her deadly mace. Forcing a bolt of freezing cold into and hurling it at a target was child's play. At this moment, her target was that blasted figure who was caught like a rabbit in magelights. It took little motivation for her to throw it with all her might, and it delivered much satisfaction when the bolt hit the infiltrator in the chest and sent him flying.

* * *

When he hit the ground, he didn't feel it. The cold simply drained all feeling from his chest and gut. His arms and legs worked well enough as he scrambled to his feet, blade and gun clattering against the floor briefly in their sheath and holster, but his chest was solid and unmoving; it was hard to breathe. Not good.

He glanced over to his assailant, identifying her as Saint Sejuani - normally a good thing, for to even see any of the Saints was a goal far unnatainable by many - and her hand hovering over a glowing rune on the wall. A cruel smirk had made its way to the Saint's face - one that promised impending pain - and she pressed her hand to the wall, activating the array and feeding an image of the infiltrator to all security forces and systems in the Institute. Then the light changed from the gentle evening blue to harsh, glaring white. And around the infiltrator's form was a neon orange glow. Not good.

Then, he was hit with some sort of spell. While he fought for motion in the physical world, in his mind he was trying to ignore the railway spike that was slowly being ground into his head, scattering his thoughts and making it hard to focus. Additionally, he felt freezing cold in his gun-arm, accompanied by stabbing pains in his chest.

The Winter's Wrath was giving him no mercy, it seemed.

Then he gathered himself in both body and mind as best he could, and pulsed his mind outwards. Immediately, he felt his movement no longer impeded - by the magic, at least - and the immense pressure on his mind gone. He wasted no time, wrenching himself one direction and carried on fleeing for his life.

The Frejlordian was more than happy to pursue, aided by the League's magery passively pointing out his position in her mind.

* * *

When the lights changed, the champions still feasting inside knew their mystery infiltrator had been caught. When they learned his location, bearing, and the speed at which he was moving, they were overjoyed. All of them readied the weapons they carried on them and rushed outside to the Grand Hall. Some dashed off to secure different vital areas in the massive Institute.

Sarah Fortune, champion of Bilgewater port and more often known simply as Miss Fortune, opted to stay near the massive doors of the Great Hall. There were six corridors that all led to this room, not including the various doors that were linked to the central hall of the Champions' sector of the Institute.

From what the League security system was telling her and all of her fellow champions, in a manner similar to the knowing of where their team-mates were in the Fields of Justice, that blasted infiltrator was heading this way. She and her rival Captain Gangplank were present and loading their weapons; the whole hall, in fact, was underlaid with the steady staccato of clicks from weapons of all kinds.

Tristana was loading bullets into the munitions chamber of her oversized gun, Lux was swirling globules of light about her staff, readying to launch them with deadly force, and though he was by no means a ranged fighter, a small way away the massive Steam Golem named Blitzcrank was smacking his fists together in anticipation of a fight.

"Attention. This is the plan." Normally they would have borne more than a few objections to Swain involving them in his plans. Though he was renowned as the Master Tactician and acknowledged as the Grand General and thus the de facto ruler of Noxus, - a title that was nothing to sneeze at - his plans more often than not had little to no regard for their own safety.

Now, however, they had a lot of irritation to vent. Swain always had a strategy; no doubt he was coming up with half a dozen more as he took a step forward.

"Some of the Fighter Champions are already chasing after him. They are forcing him this way. He will come through that door." He said, pointing to an inconspicuous-looking one near the great staircase that led to the League's upper levels. "I have many of the Ambush champions waiting in the Dining Hall. Force him in there." Swain himself fought back a scowl - one greater than the one he was wearing now, anyway - as he was reminded that Jarvan IV was in there, and he had been forced to work to the same cause as the Demacian.

"Blitzcrank. Your abilities will be needed in the Hall also. Please move there." To this, the Steam Golem nodded, uncaring of any petty squabbles the humans bore. The floor shook as the three-ton automaton lumbered through the doors and moved into position in the massive Dining Hall.

"Remember. Simply force him into there. He is not to be killed." Swain reminded, turning to move off.

"Why?" Many in the room turned to see who dared risk the Master Tactician's ire. It was none other than a conman named Malcolm; though to the League and the public he was simply Graves, the Outlaw. And he asked silkily of Swain, checking his gun again;

"Exactly why can we not just pump his guts full of lead and leave him in a shallow grave?"

"Well, you wouldn't want such good information to spoil, would you?" The Tactician asked near-mockingly. Graves scowled; Swain reminded him far too much of his former partner in crime, Twisted Fate. The same sense of knowing more than him, the same looking-down to him that they both bore did not sit well with the Outlaw at all.

"We don't even know who they are, let alone why they are infiltrating the Institute. That is an act against every nation who invested in the League. I for one want answers." Swain finished his explanation on a slightly condescending note. Graves simply turned away, glaring at nothing and his finger gently stroking the trigger guard.

* * *

The hallway was quiet, save for the distant echoes of the pursuit that revertebrated through the narrow way, usual traffic of only a few people a night long changed to back-up escape route. Then as the fleeing infiltrator burst through the door at the end of it, the pursuit entered the hall.

He had to sprint for his life; though his lungs were screaming in protest, still numbed and cramped from the phantom pains of Sejuani's attacks, he forced himself to gulp down filtered air through his mask desperately. Air was needed for him to run; and to slow or stop would mean to be in the reaches of those pursuing him.

Then again, those pursuing him would likely just kill him and be done with it. It's what he would have done.

A door burst open in front of him, with none other than Saint Garen leaping out. The glint of a blade swinging towards his face was all he saw, before he was knocked backwards off his feet, with a rod of searing fire splitting his face. As the stealthsuit-clad infiltrator fell backwards to the floor, feet flying out under him by his own momentum, another clang was heard along with a wisp of cool air tickling his stubble and chin.

The infiltrator rolled, dodging the blade that Garen stabbed downward which ended up clattering against cold marble. Taking in a breath, he woozily confirmed that it was broken. True to the thought, the sharp intake of air was cool, and unrestricted as opposed to the hot, heavily purified air he was forced to gasp down through his mask's respirator.

The Might of Demacia swung the blade again, which was dodged as a wolflike mutated man by name of Warwick, though also known as the Blood Hunter, burst through the door of the opposite hall and charged toward the now partially unmasked infiltrator, who had no choice but to flee again through the door and down through yet another hallway.

* * *

In the Main Hall, Gangplank tightened his grip on his trusty sidearm. The sounds of the pursuit were growing closer; he could make out the enraged roars of Warwick and the dull clangs of Garen's armor. Beside him, Miss Fortune stood, her pistols Shock and Awe held akimbo and levelled at the door that they knew the caught infiltrator would emerge from.

The pursuit was much louder now; they could hear the infiltrator's boots hastily trying to keep ahead of his pursuers. The League's combat-assisting magic kept them well informed of the fleeing infiltrator.

Their plan thus far was to have several of the firearms-bearing Champions lay down a wall of shot, magic or arrows at him, forcing him to take cover, which the various cold magic-users would blast the man with a wave of freezing and hopefully slowing cold as he exited into the hall, where the pursuers would force him into the Dining Hall, where the likes of Shen, Talon, and Zed would swoop down and incapacitate the infiltrator.

The latter of those three did not like that idea at all, especially when Swain had emphasized the 'Incapacitate' part to the Master of Shadows. 'Contempt for the Weak' was not simply the name of his ability; it was his ideal by which he lived.

Then as every Champion sounded off as ready or pursuing through the combat-assisting magics that kept them in communication, they readied themselves. The ambush was seconds away.

* * *

The infiltrator burst through another hallway, fleeing from his pursuers, and went out one door into a large, open space. The air shifted, and a sixth sense born of long years of combat made him leap back behind the cover of the door he had just burst through. Sure enough, a large volley of bullets flew at him and the position he was previously.

The sound of Warwick's heavy gait reached him before the wolf-man roared, and barreled in through the door, sending him flying. He twisted in midair as best he could, and crumpled to land at his knees, facing the way he had come from. Glancing up, he saw the massive figure dart back. He glanced to the side, and was rewarded with the sight of at least two dozen figures, all levelling weapons at him.

He darted forward as best he could; the stealthsuit he had was not designed for fast-paced combat movement. He headed for a table in the spacious hall; for whichever reason, the League's administrators had decided to make several of their pieces of furniture out of marble as well.

Pushing the table over gave him some cover, allowing him to weather the next barrage. Then Warwick roared again, dashing out towards him. He saw Garen and Tryndamere charging at him across the hall as well.

He couldn't go forward to the large door he supposed was an exit to a greater hall, for that way was blocked by the line of ranged Saints, who it seemed had decided to halt, favouring the three Saints who evidently wished to engage him in close combat.

And he couldn't stay in safety where he was currently, because three of the League's greatest heavyweights were charging at him and his overturned marble table, which was itself dangerously close to being shattered. It could not weather another barrage from the firing line.

Finding it to be the only plan that would have any hope of working, he rolled towards the charging wolf-man, and as Warwick bent down to swipe at him, he extended his legs and hands upward, straight into the Blood Hunter's jaw.

A mighty THUMP was heard, along with the clacking of teeth being smacked together, and the lycanthropic man actually was forced up off his feet from the move. Meanwhile, the infiltrator, now at his feet, drew his own pistol and levelled it at the line just as they were looking to find some part him to shoot again.

As the infiltrator pulled the trigger, a CRACK sounded, as well as a ray of orange-edged incandescent light flying forth from the end of his gun, to impact and slice off a large amount of marble from the wall. Just to force them into cover, he snapped off a few more shots at the other two advanced toward him. Needless to say, many of those among the firing line at the end of the Hall ducked behind cover. They had more than enough experience with lasers, after facing Lux so many times.

That action bought him a few seconds, at least. A few seconds in which Garen charged forward, greatsword raised with the intent to place another blow. The infiltrator merely drew the three and a half-foot blade he carried.

The Might of Demacia swung heavily across and downwards to his shoulder, and the infiltrator's efforts left the blades of the two meeting around three feet away from the infiltrator's body. As the force of Garen's attack continued, the infiltrator ducked slightly and instead of the two engaging in a contest of strength to budge the blades or break away, his attack was subverted.

With the help of some strength from the legs, the infiltrator managed to heave Garen's blade over his head and downwards. This left the Champion or Saint, depending on who would be describing it, in a significant pause as his blade was slightly embedded in the marble floor.

The infiltrator decided to capitalize on this. His sword was angled across his chest and to his left, but instead of dealing a swing as he could have to strike at the Saint's neck, the infiltrator tightened his grip on his blade and smacked Garen with all his might in the temple with the butt of his blade's handle.

The Might of Demacia went out like a light.

* * *

His opponent's armored form had barely clattered against the ground when Tryndamere's blade swung over the Barbarian King's head and down to him. The infiltrator flung himself backward, but the edge of the Barbarian King's blade still bit its way through to the armor underneath his stealthsuit. As the infiltrator hit the ground a second time, he felt a huge bruise on his sternum; blindly grasping at his chest, the infiltrator felt through his stealthsuit that the metal of the suit's armor was completely split in twain.

He managed to scramble to his feet, woozy from the blow and and also from his foolish head smacking against the floor.

At that minute, he was seeing double. Through the damaged lenses of his mask, he saw a blur coming up. Heaving himself backward, he managed to dodge the heavy upward slash that Tryndamere made. However, that left him exposed to the line of people which were now again ready to fire at him.

Over at the line, Ashe had another arrow nocked since before Garen had hit the ground. With the two remaining combatants, her husband Tryndamere and that damned infiltrator, she had ample time to take action. But they were moving about so much that it was hard to keep track of where they were, let alone get a clear enough view to make a shot.

She then saw the infiltrator dodge and turn to the side to avoid her husband's punch, which exposed his back to her and the rest of the line. Seeing nobody else ready to fire, she let sucked in her breath and aimed.

Tryndamere was pissed. Not drunk, and not just plain old angry, but truly and utterly enraged. This bastard had the audacity to not only attempt to infiltrate the League, but now that he was in striking range he wasn't even taking the blows, instead dipping and dodging all of his attacks.

The Barbarian King simply took his blade in both hands again, and gave a mighty swing across to the bastard's head.

Infuriatingly, the infiltrator again ducked, with the blade sweeping inches over the top of the bastard's half-masked head again. But he heard and felt the telltale sound and cold of his wife Ashe's arrows flying, and a meaty thunk informed him that it found its mark. He looked down, and saw a frost-tipped arrow embedded in the infiltrator's back.

* * *

He had just ducked to avoid the Barbarian King's strike when he felt a massive impact at his back which knocked him forward and down from his duck into a full crouch.

Like before, he felt nothing in his entire torso at all, as well as significant part of his upper sword-arm. He groped at his back, and to his dismay he found that around an inch under his right shoulderblade there was something lodged there. He reached for it, and as soon as his hand hit wood, he grasped the protruding object firmly and pulled for all his worth. With a pain like the 'medical-issue cutting-chains' of the Noxians, he grit his teeth and pulled the arrow out. Immediately, warmth and cold started to battle over his back.

Blearily, he inspected it. Though he saw double, he could figure out that it bore some resembance to the standard Frejlordian arrow design. Hastily, he got to his feet, tossing the arrow aside and taking up his own blade again.

The Saint again darted forward to attack, so the infiltrator quickly brought up his blade, mustering all his strength into blocking the blow. The massive blade of the Barbarian King was indeed stopped, but Tryndamere quickly brought up his left fist, darting at the infiltrator in a jab. The King's meaty hand smacked straight into the infiltrator's exposed jaw, yanking his head backward and making the smaller combatant reel.

The next thing the infiltrator saw was the right foot of the King smacking into his chest, and a hard impact as he smacked against whatever was behind him. As he continued being thrown past whatever he had hit, another thing pummeled into him, making his body flip through the air. He was facing the floor, with his legs arcing above and behind his head when he felt himself grabbed in mid-air, flipped over and tossed to the ground again.

Thankfully, he managed to make a decent landing, his knees crumpling under him to cushion the blow. He rose to his full height, and brought his blade up again.

* * *

That series of events was something no-one had planned for. Over the mental combat-communication spell, Ashe had made it very clear she had intended to get him in the knee or the thigh, in order to cripple him. It was as much Tryndamere's fault as it was hers, dammit! But she couldn't gripe any further when she had seen him grip her arrow, and rip it out of his back. The sight was transmitted all over the battle-network.

Then, of course, he had got up just in time to block Tryndamere's overhead swing. Then her husband broke off the mens' bout of strength and punched him in the jaw. The Frost Archer almost palmed her face. Then Tryndamere had brought up his boot and all but punted him through the door to the Dining Hall.

Swain's plan hadn't exactly gone as planned, but the infiltrator was still slowed, and in the ambush now. Close enough.

Currently, inside the hall, the circle of blade-wielding masters of stealth and ambush made their attack. Shen made his attack with one of his trusted blades swirling with energy, to which the infiltator blocked with his own blade, twisting afterward to catch the first of Akali's strikes.

Almost as soon as he fended those two blades off, Master Yi, the Wuju Master, darted in with his long blade rising to stab upwards through the infiltrator's gut. But the beaten figure again jerked himself to the side, dodging the blade and following through with a spinning slash which forced back an attacking Akali from behind him, as well as

Wukong, the Monkey King, came down from above with a battle-cry and began attacking the infiltrator. The wild yet disciplined strikes of Wukong's staff seemed to be at odds with the infiltrator's hasty, seemingly frantic fends. Then, as Wukong's staff was forced away, the infiltrator brought up the handle of his sword again, and smacked the Monkey King in the temple. He was knocked woozy, and the infiltrator drew back.

In that small lapse in combat, Zed made his strike from two sides, partnering with a clone.

The infiltrator managed to dodge the strikes, upon which Zed's clone was dispelled by the original's strike. The Shadow Master then made a sweeping strike, again to which the infiltrator managed to dodge. Zed's blades, however, did manage to tear past the man's suit and past the metal armor beneath. When the man drew back, clutching his chest, Zed guessed that his strike shattered or at least pierced his sternum.

"Look." the Infiltrator said, edging backward towards Blitzcrank, away from the admittedly large and extremely deadly group of pissed-off Champions. His evaluation was that he couldn't stand a chance of escape. But that window, while looking thick, could probably provide him with the escape he sought. Behind his back, his hand reached for a Melta grenade.

"I'd love to stay and explain everything, but you'd probably never believe me, so I'll just say this-" the infiltrator said, flicking off the pin of the grenade with his thumb and flinging it at the Steam Golem behind him.

He barely had enough time to slap a hand over his mask's eyepieces before it detonated.

What happened next could only be described as a sun appearing in the room. An explosion of heat, light and force far greater than any of the hextech bombs Ziggs, the yordle Hexplosives Expert utilised blossomed out, momentarily blinding many of the champions in the room, especially those closest to Blitzcrank and the infiltrator.

The heat washed over all of the Champions, and a massive CLANG and a slight cracking could be heard through the whiteness that blocked out all sight. Soon, however, it faded.

While the vast majority of Champions were trying to regain their sight, they heard the cracks of whatever shot the infiltrator used in his sidearm.

More cracking sounded out as well as boots hitting the marble floor reached their ears, along with the infiltrator's word; "LATER!"

Those who had regained their eyesight saw the morning sun shine through the window, unobscured by the usual thick stained glass that depicted a massive insignia of the League. Beside the sight, slightly embedded in the wall with cracks surrounding his frame the Steam Golem whined, as if in pain.

* * *

The infiltrator, meanwhile, was falling. He had guessed that the Champions' Dining Hall was from a high altitude, and a glance upward at the rapidly approaching ground confirmed that.

As soon as he acknowledged that, he flipped forward, landing on the ground on the toes of his boots then quickly rolling, absorbing some of the impact with his back, inches away from his neck.

As soon as he stopped rolling, he tried to scramble to his feet, only to have a searing pain in deep in his chest hammer itself into his existence.

A tender feeling there confirmed that he had shattered his ribs. Biting down a scream and disregarding the pain that now flared up, harder than before, he got to his feet and broke into a run, dropped down the rim of the wall he had landed on, and once he was down on the plain he began sprinting for all his worth.

* * *

As the many, many champions that utilised ranged attacks made their way through the doors onto the roof of the Institute, overlooking the plain and the fleeing infiltrator, Caitlyn, the Sheriff of Piltover, budged and bunched her way through her colleagues to Ashe's side. While they were on companionable terms, the Piltover Sheriff hadn't known what caused the earlier situation. And she wanted answers. "So, what happened with-"

"I told you, I only intended to cripple him. Trust me, if I wanted him frozen, he'd Be frozen." the Frost Archer replied when Caitlyn asked, with heavy emphasis on the second-to-last word. Caitlyn decided not to pursue the issue.

Then, as they were lining up shots to gauge the range, they felt an unseen magic take action. Ryze flung a bolt of lightning towards the infiltrator's sprinting form. To the surprise of many, the bolt travelled far further than it should have, although Ryze's aim made it merely strike the ground beside his target.

With glee from many of them, Caitlyn and Tristana especially, they began to pour forth bolts, energy balls, slugs and arrows towards the far-away runner.

* * *

Kayle took off with a powerful beat of her wings, the combat-assisting spell that the Summoners had cast previously still operating informed her that the runner was currently out on the plain, and quite a distance away from the Institute, now.

A glance to the plain informed the Judicator that He seemed to be heading towards the massive crystal formations at the edges of the valley that led up to the Institute.

To her left side, she saw Anivia the Cryophoenix flying along, and beside her glittering form she saw Corki, the Daring Bombadier of Bandle City zooming along in his flying machine. Evidently all those who could fly were in pursuit of this person.

Then whooshes of air from behind her informed the Judicator that several of the champions who had the ability to leap into the air - such as Darius, the Hand of Noxus, and Pantheon, the Artisan of War, and others who utilised such tactics were leaping overhead to land to attempt to catch.

Evidently their actions were being empowered by whatever spells were being cast. Rather than complaining, Kayle silently thanked the Summoners for finally doing something.

* * *

Down on the plain, the infiltrator was sprinting for his life, ragged breath carving fissures in his throat, and the soles of his boots flying across the dirt floor of the valley.

Lightning, fire, frost, arrows and steel slugs were constantly striking the dirt near his feet, or catching on the edges of his suit. The freezing cold of Saint Sejuani and Saint Ashe had all but stopped him cold. How he was still moving, much less actually running, he had no idea.

Then the first of his pursuers caught up to him. His streak of luck couldn't last forever, he supposed. Then when he saw who his enemy was, he nearly blanched.

It was Darius. The Hand of Noxus. And currently, the armored man was bringing a massive axe to bear against him. It was all the infiltrator could do to lunge to the side as the man's overhead attack was changed to a swinging strike against him.

This time, his Stealthsuit, already bordering on being torn into tatters, was utterly decimated by the axe's edge as well as the admittedly thin plates that festooned the space between the outer and inner layers of the suit. With his suit torn, the leather holster that kept his objectives strapped to his chest became visible.

* * *

Darius frowned, not even dignifying the infiltrator with a warcry as he dashed for his next attack. His heavy ax was not the best of weapons against a lightly-armored, lightly-armed swordsman, especially with that laser-pistol that a few of the Champions were ogling through his point on the combat-network spell, but then again, the infiltrator moved fast with his counter-strikes being weak.

In other words, the infiltrator was running ragged. All the Hand of Noxus had to do now was land a debilitating hit.

If only it were that easy, however. The smarmy little bastard was fast on his feet. And he wasn't standing to fight, he was fleeing as fast as he could, all of his injuries considered. Darius couldn't get a blow on him.

Then his fellow champion Pantheon crashed down into the ground, throwing the infiltrator back with the force of the Rakkor warrior's impact. As always, the warrior was unharmed by his jump, magically enhanced as it was.

Pantheon swung, then when the infiltrator dodged again he stabbed his spear forward, and when his opponent dodged again the Rakkorian turned and swung, turning his stab into a slash. That attack the man didn't dodge entirely. Pantheon's relic-spear dug into the infiltrator's shoulder, but the wound itself was not too serious.

Following the Rakkorian's warrior's attack, the axe-wielding Noxian dashed forward and made another strike with the ease of decades of combat experience. But infuriatingly the infiltrator darted to the side once more, making Darius's axe hit the dirt. A frustrated growl escaped the Noxian.

Then the infiltrator jerked to the side. Blood spurted out of his arm, and from the way the half-demasked man grimaced in pain while holding his arm. It was presumably a metal shot from one of the firearms-bearing champions up on the League's roof.

* * *

Though his progress was slow, with frantically dodging Saint Pantheon and Saint Darius's strikes, and also dashing for his life through the field of all manners of lethal projectiles that was coming from all the Saints on the Institute's roof, the infiltrator did manage to make some headway closer to the cavern.

Now he was regretting not retracing his footsteps through the rocky path that he had taken. That would have afforded him cover from the supressive fire, at the least. Instead, he was now sprinting for his life, making use of his lighter armour and load as opposed to the heavily-armoured Saints behind him.

Then again, if he had taken the rockier path, he would have been easy prey for the flight-capable Saints that were pursuing him. As he neared the cavern's entrance, around a small outcrop which afforded the shooters and spell-slingers on the roof no line of sight to fire, one such example of a flying Saint was a huge, majestic bird of ice, which landed in between him and the cavern which had led to his exfiltration point.

The Cryophoenix roared her anger, in which the infiltrator followed a soldier's sixth sense and dived to the side. Just in time so that Anivia's frost breath-attack flew some distance away from him, yet it still drained a huge portion of his body heat, making him gasp for air that stung at his throat. Over the bottom of the eye-pieces of what remained of his mask, the infiltrator saw his breath cloud.

Sensing a sword swing down through the air, the infiltrator hurriedly drew his own blade as a much heavier one met it. Throwing off the attack to the side with what remained of his strength, the man with the shattered mask looked upwards properly and saw it belonging to a winged, armoured figure, with a two-hand and blood-red sword. Saint Kayle.

But he had no time to be honoured by the attentions of so many of the Saints. He jerked himself to his feet, and sprinted forward as Saint Anivia prepared for another attack, and Saints Darius and Pantheon moved to the side. He heard Saint Kayle's wingbeats and realized that she was planning to box him in, with herself and Saints Darius and Pantheon forming walls preventing his escape, and Saint Anivia herself readying her attack to finish him.

So he immediately sprinted forward, towards the Cryophoenix readying to attack.

* * *

Anivia was thrown off by the seemingly suicidal dash of the infiltrator, so her attack missed somewhat. As he neared, she drew back, and then the wounded infiltrator drew something that resembled one of the small killing-tools she had seen some of the mortal Champions in the League use.

When it started to release beams of scorching light that punched hard at the ice that made up her form, she dispelled the gust of deadly frost she'd been building up and powered herself up into the air, intending to land on the offender and bring him back captive.

Instead, he had opted to run right underneath her previous position. She decided to take the initiative and send a breath of frost down on top of him. Certainly, it wasn't as powerful as one of her full-strength attacks, but it did slow him down significantly. He was stumbling along now, anyway.

Then down from the sky, a series of shots fell down, punching holes in the valley floor. Anivia looked up and saw Corki diving down and strafing the fleeing infiltrator with fire from his gatling gun. However, all it did was shatter some of the ice that had built up at the floor that the infiltrator had crossed already.

Corki pulled up, and banked around for another run. Over the combat-communication spell, he made it known to the other two that he intended to bomb the entrance with a napalm bomb so he could cut off the exit to the tunnel once the infiltrator went inside. Anivia nodded, flying up and away from the Bombardier's flight path.

Out on the ground below, Kayle, Darius and Pantheon moved to prepare to charge through the spot where Corki was planning to drop his bomb. It would seal the infiltrator's escape, until Anivia could douse the napalm bomb with more of her freezing breath in the event that those who went inside couldn't overpower him.

Though before that, below she saw Jayce and Master Yi land from their magically-enhanced jumps. Also, in a flash of light she saw six figures appear from the telltale sigil of a temporary teleportation rune.

They turned out to be a rather 'tanky' group, as the Leagues's Summoners would have described it: Gragas – the Rabble Rouser and resident brewmaster, the Grandmaster at Arms by name of Jax, Rammus the Armordillo, as well as three shooters from the previous firing line in the hall: Miss Fortune, Ashe and Graves.

After the heavier-armored and bulkier of the Champions shuffled past their ranged colleagues, they went forward as one, after Anivia's frost breath quenched the flaming napalm left behind by Corki's bomb. The Daring Bombardier himself did a fly-over as the group entered the cave.

* * *

The infiltrator heard footsteps in the cavern, and dashed forward between the rock walls as quickly as he could. Behind him, he heard out cries such as 'He went this way!' and 'Over here!' echoing from the caverns behind. As best he could with his shattered ribs and wounds screaming in agony, he made his way further over the rock and deeper into the cavern.

Then as he rounded a corner, he saw it. The perfectly semi-spherical hole carved into the floor of the cavern which marked his entry point into this place. He walked forward, stumbling a little as one of his wounds widened. Into the shallow hole he went, and prepared to jump into the air. It wasn't exact, but it was all he could do. The sounds of his pursuers became louder, and he took out the precious device into his hands, sheathing his sword and fumbling to close his pistol's holster.

_Must've lost it_, he thought. _Crap!_

* * *

They had just rounded the corner when they saw him inside a hole in the ground. A hole with a perfect, spherical, bottom, hardly blemished save for a small section where boot prints lay along its height.

Master Yi, Darius, Jax and Jayce encircled the small hole as the shooters prepared to open fire on him. But he took another device – this one being a small, angular-faced cylinder with glowing blue crystals set into its gilted frame – and twisted a few dials even as weapons were levelled at him.

Darius levelled a full glare of baleful strength at the infiltrator, hefting his great axe to a ready position. "Identify yourself!" he barked.

"As I said before, you'd probably never believe me." The half-masked man said, his voice echoing around the cavern. His voice bore an accent – the Noxian warrior swore it carried a hint of the Frejlordian twang in it, and quick, clipped tones similar to the snatches of Olaf's speaking in his native language.

The man depressed a button, and the device began to tick. "Later!" the infiltrator yelled, before jumping into the air and vanishing in a flash of white light and yellowish lightning.

And he was gone.


End file.
